Still Waters
by purplecleric
Summary: Perhaps this is why Carver left... * Warning - this is another dark tale - includes content that will not be to everyone's taste *
1. Prologue

He studies his reflection in the mirror and is pleased with what he sees.

All buttoned up, tie knotted and straight, good suit cut well, moustache neatly trimmed, nails short and discreetly manicured. All is in place, all in order; the facade perfect. _You think you can hide behind good grooming and fine tailoring? _He tries to ignore the small voice that nags him from the back of his mind, the voice that is ever quick to condemn, to accuse, to highlight his hypocrisy. Yes, the suit is camouflage; he needs it to blend his black face in among the white world of the law. _Race is not the only thing you're trying to disguise, is it?_ The suit is his uniform, but is also a symbol of his status, his success. He could now afford handmade shirts, silk ties and bespoke tailoring. _You just love the way the fine fabrics slide on your skin, the way the jacket emphasises broad shoulders and narrow waist, the way the pants mold and cling to your ass... _He briefly shuts his eyes as he closes his mind, lets out a deep sigh to expel any lingering thoughts of sensuality, and mask now firmly back in place, heads off to work.

He likes the DA, Ms Lewin, preferring her more liberal and academic approach to the stern and unforgiving manner of her predecessor, Adam Schiff. He'd liked Adam's stricter adherence to the law but always felt his sharp eyes were ever watchful for signs of weakness. Ms Lewin was equally strict when it came to matters of the law but he felt she was less judgemental, probably having faced as much prejudice as him. _Do you really think she would be any more sympathetic if she found out?_ He tries to ignore the voice and concentrate on what the DA is telling him.

"With Mulrooney's departure, I'm shuffling around the Trial Division. I've been impressed by your recent trials, Ron, so I want you to lead on the work coming from the Major Case Squad..."

Major Case! This was, indeed, a feather in his cap. Deakins ran a tight ship over there, and the cases were high profile. Years of careful composure prevented any display of jubilation, and he thanks Ms Lewin in his customary mannered style, paying no heed to the whispering inner voice. _Major Case? Major scrutiny, more like. Better keep all buttoned-down..._


	2. Genesis

"Always the same way, Ron..."

His wife sighs, her voice heavy with discontent, her naked back still towards him. It's the way he likes it, the way he can enjoy her slim athletic body, watching the muscles move under her smooth skin. _It's the only way, isn't it? The only way you can..._

"I'd just like to spice it up a little. It's getting predictable..."

Predictable is good, no nasty surprises, all eventualities prepared for, no chance to slip up. Predictable means the facade is still intact. _ Maybe she'll take a lover? Let you off the hook..."_

The law is predictable: it's all there laid out in black and white, intricate and complex, meticulously recorded. It was not his place to make the laws, to forge new trails -that was for others. It was his guide, just as he was required to guide others through the established maze to the final goal. A labyrinth to lose himself in, to forget other trickier paths_. But you can't forget, can you?_

Major Case proved to be just as he predicted; the case work arriving well organised and thoroughly investigated, the groundwork providing a strong foundation for the case he would present to the Grand Jury and eventually to the Court. Deakins, indeed, ran a tight ship and was well informed about all the ongoing investigations his squad of experienced detectives were running; a concise status report always readily available. And the detectives knew what they were doing; the reports conscientiously prepared, the interviews and interrogations conducted with professionalism and skill.

Yes, it was a pleasure working in this environment. A pleasure to be sat here in the interrogation room, collaborating with – what was his name? – ah, Detective Goren, to manoeuvre this suspect into giving up his associates. _ Not as good as other neglected pleasures..._ With well practiced ease, he ignores the inner voice, his mind as blank as his face, using his hands and his carefully mannered speech to give the necessary emphasis.

"Funny thing, the law. The right hand commits the murder; the left hand pays for it..."

The detective is leaning against the one- way mirror, hands in pockets, watching him and he feels, suddenly, like an actor on stage called upon to perform_. With a special audience of one, eh?_ He uses his hands to mimic a balance, carefully enunciating his point.

"Life. Death. You choose..."

But it seems he is not the only performer in this piece; the detective having moved around the table and is now bending in an extraordinary way to capture the gaze of the suspect. _Caught your attention, too, didn't it? _ And the detective is still drawing attention as he bobs and darts about, trying to read the paperwork over the shoulders of him and Detective Eames. And again he feels the urge to perform _to impress_ as they ask for a warrant, and he finds himself pompously pronouncing;

"I'll handle it!"

His mind returns to this unconventional move, as he later watches the same detective interview the girlfriend of the suspected ringleader, watches him lay out a carefully constructed web of implications based on autopsy reports and suspected sexual proclivities._ Been a long time since_ _you enjoyed that particular thrill..._ A brief clench of buttocks, clenching his jaw against unwelcome memories. His astonishment at the blatant lie is lost in the glorious triumphant smile the detective flashes him when he realises the girlfriend has taken the bait.

It was his admiration of the skilful manipulations that leads him to stand beside Detective Goren to face the DA, to take his side. _ Admit it, it was his smile..._ His own smile, frozen on his face, when Ms Lewin questions his judgement.

Murder and art forgery and Detectives Eames and Goren waylay him on his way back from court with details of tax scams and speculations. Feeling strangely exposed, despite his hat and heavy coat, he is brusque as he points out the flaws and directs them to the only legal case to be made. Uncomfortably aware of the large man's presence, he keeps his attention focussed entirely on the smallest of the pair_. Don't look at him, don't meet his eye, he might see..._

But he can't do anything except look at Detective Goren as he circles around the forger, spinning a hypnotic story of thwarted ambition and the fear of mediocrity. _Well, he's mesmerised you..._

A dual attack; the very expensive and experienced Van Acker lawyer opposite and the compelling presence of Detective Goren next him. He crosses his arms in defence, tries to keep his focus. Mrs Van Acker is intimidating, but doesn't disturb him as much as the conspiratorial look from the tall detective...

And the onslaught continues. Intruding into his office, catching him without the protective barrier of his jacket, Goren and Eames seeking a search warrant for the priest's living quarters. The probable cause obscure until Goren weaves another spell of supposition. _ And you, raptly, hanging on every word..._ And, of course, the case had to be as challenging as the detective himself; a battered priest and his young _gay!_ lover... The debate over the affirmative defence a trial, conducted on the courthouse steps and him caught between the detectives' opposing opinions. Trying to keep his attention on Eames _who do you think you're fooling? _ as his arm, involuntarily, reaches out to grasp Goren's elbow. The shocking jolt of what he had done, what he might have revealed... He's got to get a grip, take control of this situation.

The opportunity presents itself when he learns of Goren's highly irregular visit to McShale, without the presence of his lawyer. Anger and outrage bolstering his defences, turning his manner and voice to steel.

"Did you threaten him?"

"No, Sir."

Sir! The word sends a bolt of lightning to his groin. Goren's manner is submissive, hunched on himself, neutered and he feels his own power rise.

"Detective..."

He stands, moves to sit on the desk by the now seemingly smaller man; feeling the control, the dominance.

"If you try and run one by me like that again, I'll have your badge."

The words are calm and quiet; striking with lethal accuracy at the detective's most vulnerable point, and he thrills to see the fear evident on that handsome face_. That's more like it!_

"Are you coming up, Ron?"

Words of invitation, and the new lacy negligee is an obvious indication of his wife's attempt to introduce the variety she felt lacking. Still heady with the triumphant result of the day's confrontation with Goren, he decides to rise to her challenge.

He unties the silk scarves from her wrists and she rolls over to face him, purring her satisfaction and he is suddenly overcome with revulsion. Her short hair and lean, lithe body now seem unattractive, too...feminine. _ Admit it; you want broader shoulders, browner eyes and not a purr, but a growl..._


	3. Revelations

And he still has the control, the power. He has what they - _he!-_ needs...

He sits in Deakins' office, revelling in that feeling; a king on his throne. The supplicants laying before him their wants, their wishes_...if only!_ Eames is all business but the other... framed by the window, Goren is a work of art. He tries to follow their reasoning but is distracted by pale, elegant hands painting pictures.

"So, what are you suggesting?" He adjusts his glasses, to avoid looking over the frames_. Flirt !_

Listening, still trying to focus. _ But you are focussed... focussed on him, he has your complete attention. _He feels himself slipping, feels the pull , the longing. No! Time to reassert himself.

"Charge them for a murder they didn't commit of a person who isn't dead? I can't begin to count the number of violations that would entail."

Deakins now chimes in;

"Mr. Carver, this man Dupont, or whatever his name is, has had us chasing our tails for a couple of weeks now. I don't know about you, but I do _not_ like being made a fool of."

He is resolute until beseeching brown eyes fix on his, until the large frame folds up into the chair beside him, until those expressive hands reach out, until that soft voice pleads...

"Payback is the healthy human response here."

He relents. But Goren doesn't...

There's collaboration:

After the arraignment, they sit side by side, elbow to elbow, identical postures as they listen to the Markham woman. _Who's mimicking who?_ The shared knowing glance as the way forward is revealed. Side by side again, partner less, descending the courthouse steps, longer legs in time with his, minds also in time as they discuss the plans to trap Dupont.

And a challenge:

"Ten to one, he'll call me back. He has something to prove to me."

And he's tempted; a chance to best him, to come out on top... until the unwelcome intrusion of Eames' voice.

"I've taken him on before, Mr. Carver. I'm down 18 bucks."

And another performance:

Goren reading aloud from his textbook to prove his point; the passion in his voice swelling his already formidable presence. Other parts swelling in response as he watches, mouth dry, captivated.

And the wistful invitation to share in dreams:

Partner less again, by his side again as they leave the court room, Goren's voice yearning as he speaks of the importance of having two people who think you're special.

"Some people get by on a lot less." I did. _ And I think you're special..._

"They shouldn't have to." _You don't have to..._

"Again, Ron? I don't know what's got into you these days. That added kink has certainly got you inspired."

And perhaps his wife is right, perhaps it is silk scarves and a bit of rough play that is inspiring him. _More likely a silky voice and a man who is far from rough..._

But he's still in denial, still not listening to that nagging voice; the ingrained habits of decades are too entrenched. He's still convinced he is being seduced by power, by his authority, by his mastery of the law. He still believes this is the thrill he's feeling as he rounds on Goren in Deakins' office, challenging the detective about the "Angel of Death."

"Profiling is an art, not a science. Isn't that so?"

And Goren is pissed at the challenge, the sulky look speaking volumes.

"I'm telling you she's not the one!" And it feels so good to rattle him.

And it feels even better to watch him grovel and plead, to flatter. Indict a clock? Ha! He'd done more than that; from a wink to a nod to the begged for indictment.

True, Goren was skilful, adept. He watches the interrogation of the plastic surgeon through the one way glass, full of admiration for the way the detective manipulates the suspect into revealing his rage, into slipping up. _Full of admiration for the way he moves, the way he commands attention, the way he dominates..._ But he's still not listening.

And now it is his turn.

Goren has laid the ground work, but this is the court and he is king; playing to his audience- _ to him!_; showing off his own skills, his own mastery and his own commanding presence to manipulate the surgeon into again showing his rage. Yes! Triumphantly bragging outside the courthouse, subtly snubbing Goren by turning his full attention to Eames, treating her to his charm... He's not sure if he is trying to put Goren down or provoke him. _ Or make him jealous?_

It is late, and the offices are empty. He sits, enjoying the quiet and the shadows, reflecting on this latest case; one of their own psychiatric experts, of all people! Reflecting on the way Goren's intense gaze had unsettled the doctor, on the teases and the taunts, the talk of love, the detective's triumphant strut and the way he had stood behind him. Oh, so very close...

Reflecting on his own words:

"Your client's not insane. He's in love. Maybe it's hard to tell the two apart, but the law can."

And in remembering the words, spoken here in this very room, the truth hits home.

He was in love!

Not gentle, nurturing, heart warming love. But fierce, heart rending, button popping love; tearing through carefully stitched up seams, ripping through the tight weave of the fabric of his facade, sundering his soul. Bared, exposed; it held him in its grip, squeezing the secret centre of him, leaving him sweating and fighting for breath. Hands following thoughts following feelings.

Not the pretty politeness and polished pretence of a faux marriage. Not a passing fancy for a junior paralegal, desperate and eager to please. Not a fleeting daydream of a passing pretty boy, with tight jeans and an even tighter ass. No idle longings easy to quash. No, this was a colleague, a peer_, a man;_ challenging, confrontational, provocative, masterful. His equal in age, status, intelligence _... equal? Superior. He'll take all you've got, he'll take you on, he'll take you and he'll always come out on top..._

And with that thought, he comes; undone.


	4. Psalms

***WARNING* - it's getting darker; some may find the content unpleasant or challenging to read. Those with easily offended sensibilities – step away! **

Hallelujah!

His heart sings as his mind embraces what he has been denying, just as he yearns to embrace. His inner voice no longer a critic, but a chorus.

Sings at the soft slide of the fine cotton of the shirt across his skin -_ imagine the soft slide of his fingers, his skin... _Sings as his fingers trace a path across the polished wood of his desk _- think of fingers tracing a path across your mahogany plains..._ Sings as he sips from the mug, knowing whose lips had previously lingered there _- a remote kiss, separated by porcelain and time, but oh, so delicious... _Sings as he sinks into the recently vacated chair, still retaining the warmth from its previous occupant _- think of the heat of his lap, think of sinking into it, sinking into him...so deep._

This office, once dry and defined, now so full of sensual shadow; the lingering traces of a man whose impact was so potent he left echoes and refrains as he passed through...

But there were harsher, more dissonant notes.

"Hey, Ron, have you heard the one about the man who went gay clubbing? The only problem was cleaning the blood off the baseball bat afterwards..." The snorting laughter echoing around the corridors of the courthouse.

"I just don't trust that mincing public defender..." "Yeah, don't turn your back on him!" Chuckles around the dinner table.

"So a dead fag, eh?... gotta be homocide. Homocide, geddit? Still, one less to worry about..." Cop talk at a crime scene.

"...stop him from drowning?" "If he were black, I wouldn't bother..." Ushers at the Supreme Court.

"Fucking lawyers! You know what they have in common with blacks and fags? They all look good hanging from a fucking tree..." Courthouse security on a smoke break, bemoaning their plight.

Black. Homosexual. Lawyer. The triple target of revulsion, the full house of hate. Him.

He had denied two in pursuit of the third and the Law had become all to him; his guide, his comfort, his identity. It had opened doors and elevated him, had given him relative wealth, authority, status, power. But now he was caught between the law and love...

A point never more obvious than here, in Judge Blakemore's home; thankful for Goren's antisocial investigative style because he's not sure he can handle the full force of his personality at this time. Damn! Even watching him flip the top on a bin was strangely enthralling...Loyalties still divided as Goren turns on the Judge with arrogant but startling accuracy. The pull of the known, the familiar, and the reliable stronger than secret songs and hidden hopes. He remains faithful to the Law.

Confidence restored, he warns Deakins to tread carefully, and suspicions of murder and plagiarism do not sway him. This man was a justice of the New York Court! And it does not stop there, even when they drag Judge Sabatelli into the mix.

He was angry; angry at the accusations, angry at not being kept informed, at being ambushed by Sabatelli on the stairs, angry at the attack on his foundations, his beliefs, his heroes...Angry at the persecutor, the accuser; angry at the beguiling, bewitching bastard who was tearing at his faith, tearing at his heart, who squeezed his balls as he stroked his soul.

"Sabatelli hates everyone." Marching into his office; the detectives trailing in the wake of his wrath. Eames, as ever, the voice of reason:

"He doesn't hate you."

"I admire him as a maverick." He dares, I dare not... _Not the only maverick you admire, is he? So do you, do you dare? _ That inner voice, another provocateur. "He doesn't see me as a threat." But you should, Goren_... Go on, show him who's boss, show him you won't roll over, won't yield..._

But Goren is not like his partner, is full of self righteousness, full of arrogance –_magnificence!- _ and storms up to him; the air between them crackling with electricity.

"He's paranoid! Pathological!" Voice raised, eyes sparking.

His own voice rising in reply, no longer sure if he is rising to the bait to defend the Law, or to put the detective in his place - _cowed before you, on his knees..._

"Is that police code for 'hot-blooded'?" His own blood boiling with rage and lust, turbulent in the torment.

"Well, don't put words in my mouth, or some kind of attitude!" _It's not words I want to put in your mouth..._

Neither backing down, neither backing off; the argument a resounding anthem trumpeting strength, power, the fight for supremacy. The air thick with heat, with tension, with testosterone.

Eames's clear, calm voice breaking the deadlock, clearing the air, calming tempers.

No time for silk toys to prettify his need, he drives himself deep into his wife's warm depths, driving her face into the pillow. Willing her to fight him, needing her to fight him, needing to feel brawn. No longer deceiving himself with her androgynous form, his mind is filled with visions of pure masculinity; of coarser hair on chest and belly; of longer, stronger arms and legs; of stubble and curls; of Adam's apple bobbing while greedily gobbling, of hotter, tighter channels to plunder, of...of_...him!_

And if this heartsong had purely been one of power and glory, it may well have faded away. But its melody varied, keeping him listening, keeping him captivated...

Professionalism returning, working together to trap Sabatelli; his loyalty no longer divided but shared. Glowing with the satisfaction of a job well done, savouring the quiet moment with Bobby in the observation room, hand reaching out to briefly clasp his arm, enjoying the feel of forearm under fabric.

The model cars; a reminder of innocent times past. Sat across from Bobby, their legs a hairs breadth from intertwined; two boys playing. He was transported back to childhood, to his grandmother's house; the orphan boy delighting in the salvaged treasures, making tracks with their wheels on the worn and faded rug.

Learning the tempo and the rhythms of their investigations, adjusting to segue and surprises, becoming a collaborator. Learning Bobby's signals and cues in the interrogations and interviews, learning his moves and moods and being inspired, developing a few moves of his own.

And heart swelling, he sings this secret song.


	5. Acts

Love was not suited to lurking in shadows: it needed sunlight, needed expression...needed reciprocation.

Years of concealment making him cautious; fear of revulsion, ridicule, rejection making him wary; holding him back. Longing, love and lust driving him forward. Held in love's sway; he is swaying. Torn, trapped, tempted...

Every moment feeling frozen in indecision, overanalysing... is he seeing signs that are not there? Is he reading too much into innocuous encounters? Is hope blinding him? Is fear binding him? So many interpretations, so many layers...

And the object of all this attention doesn't help; he is complex and contradictory...

Detective: the skilled investigator; adept, perceptive, intelligent. Goren: the masterful manipulator; relentless, ruthless, rebellious. Bobby: the compassionate philosopher; wistful, wishful, dreamer.

And he knows he is just as complicated...

Counsellor: the Assistant District Attorney; precise, meticulous, straight laced. Carver: the powerful performer; flamboyant, persuasive, suave. Ronnie: the closet romantic; sensitive, secretive, vulnerable.

All these facets of their personalities thrown together, churned by the pressures of workload and the frustrations of limits, stirred by his needs and desires, seasoned by bitter experience. Most of the time he is a turbulent mess; facade maintained by the trinity of commandment, etiquette and convention – values instilled in him from childhood, reinforced by his profession. But sometimes, just sometimes, there are moments...

Moments when Detective and Counsellor conspire and collaborate and they triumph. Moments when Goren and Carver clash and battle and they are mighty. Moments where Bobby and Ronnie muse and dream and they are tender.

And in these moments, he dares to hope...He dares...

Dares to stand a little closer -_ but not close enough_, to hold eye contact a little longer _- but not to wink_, to brush a sleeve -_ but not his ass _, to let his hand linger -_ but not to fondle_. Thrilled by his courage, mocked by the inner voice for his cowardice; burning, churning, yearning...

Feeling control slipping away, feeling powerless; desperately trying to regain control, regain power...

"Ow! You're hurting me! Stop it!"

His wife's face as red and angry as the marks on her fair skin, and he has no choice but to stop. Not out of regret or shame, but because her shrill voice has shattered the fantasy and wilted his erection.

No outlet at home, no respite at work; in desperation he dons another disguise and heads out into the shadowlands. Terrified of being recognised, tormented by thoughts of a man now assuming mythic status in his mind; he eschews the wine bars and the more sophisticated clubs, in no mood for small talk and seductions and heads for seedier, more sordid destinations, for the unadulterated honesty of anonymous encounters, for the faceless, nameless who can be anybody you choose...

And at last he gets to fight, to fuck, to be fucked.

In the stinking alley, raw and sore, reeking of sex and shame; disgust mixes with the sour taste of the stranger, nauseating him. He feels hollow, unfulfilled and despairs_. Are you surprised? Is this really what you think you need? You know you want the name, the face, the whole of him. Want the brute force of his being, the subtle song of his sweetness. Want his body, his mind, his soul. None of that can be found here, hiding in the shadows, choking on your cowardice... _

Freshly showered, careful attentions paid to grooming and dress; the new suit sitting comfortably on his body. A tricky legal issue resolved with flair and imagination, an indictment granted from the Grand Jury, a trial averted by with subtle pressure put to bear on the accused to confess. Confidence restored.

"You know I find paranoid schizophrenics make excellent witnesses." The charming stammer, the way he comes to stand so close, the appealing look in his eyes...The accidental brush of knee against his under the desk - _accidental?_ The way his hands talk, as eloquent as his own, a silent language of subtle signs _- just what is he trying to say?_ Other signs; signs that Bobby is also unsettled, is off his usual form and is troubled. _Perhaps he is torn and tempted too? Wrestling his own urges..._ Hope restored.

And there is the glorious sight of Bobby in his dress blues; the solemnity of the occasion failing to prevent his flights of fancy. There are more challenges; blatant provocations and wrangles over probable cause, sharp wits wrestling, and the debate is thrilling. And there is Bobby's rare look of glee, of utter delight as he contemplates pressing the programmer's big red panic button hard. There is no shadowland, no pretence, no stranger or wife as he succumbs to his desires; there is just his passion, and his hand, and vivid fantasies of a man in uniform pushing his buttons, hard.

"Seven pounds, eight ounces."

"Excellent." He is pleased; good news is rare in their world and Detective Eames' surrogacy is nothing but goodness. But as he sees the tension drain from Bobby's face, sees his shoulders relax, sneaking doubt and an edge of jealousy creeps in. His smile fades.

Jealousy that increases on Eames' return, fuelled by the way Goren treats her, by the way she always seems to stand between them, and by the way they work together...

"I watched you very carefully, Detective- _you always do; every move, every moment because you just can't tear your eyes away_ – but I missed you slipping them into his pocket."

"Maybe because you watched the wrong detective..." A further twist in his gut and his jealousy flares.

Love, fear, jealousy, lust, resentment, hope, panic, desire – a volatile mix and the pressure is building within him, threatening to tear down his world.

"...makes me want to go home and kiss my wife." To make it all go away, to make it all safe and predictable again, to forget...

Looking at the black and white photo held in his hand, his mind is filled with nostalgia.

"They bonded for life on the road..." and the love of singing was not the only love he had shared with the guys. And now he understands; there is only one way he can end this torment – he has to know for certain.

Side by side with Bobby in the observation room, watching the suspect and his lawyer talk, looking at their faces reflected in the glass, he hopes, and dares, and finally makes an unmistakable pass... Sees the small shake of Bobby's head, sees his look of killing kindness, and hope dies.

But the feelings don't...


	6. Lamentations

Cover it up!

Cover up smooth naked skin that he's never going to touch. Cover up muscle and sinew that will never feel his caress. Cover up parts that will never tremble with the breath of his kiss, parts that will never swell with promise of his tongue, parts that will never unfurl, open, invite him in...

Button after button.

Cover up the embarrassment, the shame, the humiliation. Cover up a heart now singing songs of lament. Cover up a soul that had hoped and soared and now lies dashed and broken amidst the pieces of shattered dreams...

Layer after layer.

Hide it all away, tuck it all in. Smooth the wrinkles from your shirt, smooth the pain from your face, don the mantle of the ADA and leave Ronnie to weep.

Look at him. _Oh, God, just look at him..._

Only half listening to Detective Eames as she tries to make the case for getting the clinic to release the names of their patients, he folds his arms and strengthens his resolve against the expected offensive from Goren. But it does not come. Instead, the detective is hesitant, hangs back, hunches his shoulders, keeps those expressive hands in his pockets_. He's being kind, gentle with you..._ And anger flares, because he's in no mood for _his_ kindness.

Thankful for the barrier of his desk, trying to ignore Goren, he's again listening to Eames. Hating the revealing glance he throws at Goren when he talks of the nurse's fantasies, loving the feel of the photo warmed from being so close to his heart.

And he's still trying to ignore him, trying to avoid being drawn into the magic, as Goren weaves another spell in the photographer's studio. But he can't resist the pull, has underestimated his magnetism, his charm. Can't resist the boyish smile sent his way as Goren plays with the camera and talks of old cars, remembering other talk of cars...Watching him work the suspect -_ work you – do you see? Do you see how he's playing you? Bringing you back to his side? _ The nasty suspicion that Goren had always known, that he had used that knowledge to get his way...

A poisonous suspicion, that festers; mutating his memories. Thoughts that he had been toyed with, had been manipulated; that Goren had used his secret desires for his own gain, had used him_...Oh, but he's so good at it, so skilful, so masterful...has he bested you? Come out on top? _ NO! Hardening his heart in preparation, cock hardening in anticipation; he heads into battle.

"An arrest you knew to be false..." Eames running interference, trying to justify their actions, and Goren remains facing away, does not even turn to look at him, and it feels like contempt.

"Don't push it, Detective! " Words spoken to Eames, but aimed at Goren; the ice in his veins making his voice cold.

"If these belong to Mr. Tagman, see that he gets them back – today."

King again, eyeing the courtiers along the length of the room who bring nothing but supposition and suspicion to this table.

"We're short one piece of evidence connecting Mr. Tagman to either girl. Bring me that piece and I'll close the book on Mr. Tagman for good." He brings his hands together for emphasis, getting a buzz from the unsettled look on Goren's face.

"I'm charging him with Murder One. I intend to seek the death penalty." Being hard, getting hard. Getting harder as voices rise, as battle commences. Remaining seated, using words as their weapons, Goren is impassioned but he is armoured against the tricks and the guile. _But not immune to his power, his potency..._ But here, now, he reigns supreme. He has the authority. His word is law.

"All I need from you is the evidence to convict Mr. Tagman." Words of steel cutting through the tension, sliding home.

He rises - majestic, triumphant.

"Try one of your tricks." The final twist of the knife.

Fuck you, Goren! _ Yes, fuck him. Put him down, cut him down, bring him to his knees, shove his face to the ground...fuck him. _

He doesn't want to be here; the observation room is laden with reminders. Hating, hurting at the memory of rejection; loving, lusting at the memory of the curve and slope of his ass, at the way he had cupped, caressed, felt warm skin through the thin fabric of his pants...

"What's he doing?"

Goren has remained in the interrogation room, despite having gained enough information to secure an indictment. He watches as the detective reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, watches the jacket lift, watches the shirt strain and shift and untuck a little -_ but not enough!_ Their eyes meet, unseen, through the one way glass and Goren's look is of pure defiance.

"What is he doing?"

His tone is sterner, realization dawning. Bastard! He shakes his head in disbelief, trying to close his mind to the memory of another head shake in this very room, in this very spot. Close his mind to the memory of warm brown eyes filled with kindness. _ Are you sure it was kindness? Not... pity?_ Bile floods his mouth with bitterness.

"A heartfelt confession. So much for the death penalty..."

Anger surges. Anger at Goren for having exploited the law, for having dared...For besting him, for having him by the balls again, for spurning him, for using him. Anger at himself for not seeing, not realising... Anger at having lost this battle, at still feeling the pull even as he is pushed. Anger that is so potent that Deakins is moved to intervene.

And it simmers.

And it is still simmering as they go through the paperwork in his office, Goren wisely sitting as far from him as possible. He can't resist a dig at the detective...

"Someone should study how one man could shed so many crocodile tears."

...and is disappointed when there is no reaction. But the phone call provides another opportunity. He pauses, savouring the moment, feeling the stirring in his groin.

"Mr Tagman was beaten to death by another inmate this morning in Sing Sing."

How does it feel to hurt, to hate, eh? To regret but to know you would not change a single thing you did? To yearn to forget but have every memory seared in your brain? I hope it claws at you, eats away at you...Do you see now what you've done...to me?

He sits, nursing his drink, nursing his feelings, stroking the arm of the chair _– his chair!_ - stroking the files – _his files!_ Feelings of triumph lost to lust, as via paper and wood, he tries to stroke what he can't have, strokes himself in comfort and need and it hurts so bad, feels so good... loathing him, loving him, needing him still. Unable to let go, seeking another form of release, and when it comes, there is no relief.


	7. Exodus

There was no relief.

There was just the relentless march of days. The seemingly endless repetition of a Goren hunch, a Goren plea, a Goren skirmish, with him resisting, fighting, and then finding a way. Giving in... giving up. The soul sucking recurrence of seeing him, being near to him, falling in love a little more, losing him all over again.

There was the stifling stuffiness of the courthouse and the law, as dry and fusty as the books that lined his shelves. The echoing emptiness of a home as cold as his wife, who was now pretending, too. The daily ritual of buttoning, and zipping, and putting himself together again after nights spent falling apart.

Instead there was sorrow.

Watching performance after performance; Goren demonstrating the range of his skill, the extent of his abilities, his flair for the dramatic, and knowing he was forever going to be nothing more than a mere spectator. Watching Goren and Eames work together, their teamwork, their partnership and knowing he was never going to be any more than a bit part in Goren's life.

"It's a letter I wrote to my superior officer five years ago."

Even here, in the courtroom, his stage, he no longer had the starring role. All eyes – _his eyes_- were on her. ..

And there was fear.

The fear that had torn through him as he petitioned at the gates of the prison, terrified at what might be happening to Goren inside. The fear of the impact of the new DA who was staunchly Republican and whose ultra conservative attitude was already rattling McCoy, filling Hogan Place with the sounds of their arguments. Fear that he was losing his touch, and losing his mind...

And the shame.

The shame at the spite he had felt, had displayed. Shame at the sordid sex in shadows and filth. Shame at the way he had treated his wife, who had been an unwitting conspirator and who he now suspected was seeking her pleasures elsewhere. And that was fine; because he had taken a secret lover of his own ... his ultimate shame.

Here, in his office, late at night he danced and sang with this secret man. Thrilled by _his_ presence surrounding him; the floor _he_ had paced, the books _he_ had touched, the chair that _he_ had warmed...Here, he stroked and caressed and fondled this shadow man, using his drawer full of secret souvenirs as a bridge to reach what he could not touch. Let his lips linger on the mouth of _his_ mug, sucking _his_ pen, burying himself in the soft folds of_ his_ handkerchief. Hating himself but powerless against the need, beating himself over his weakness even as he beats off, spurting out his pain, his pathetic passion in a feverish frenzy of self gratification, self flagellation.

Hate spent, passion spent. He is no longer a king.

He studies his reflection in the mirror and is not pleased with what he sees.

All is in place, all is in order; the seams straight, the buttons fastened, the grooming meticulous, the mask is on. He reaches out and touches the cold glass, his cold image. Takes stock and realises he is a mere reflection of what the people in his life wanted from him, what his world expected of him.

His grandmother, with her southern roots and strict evangelist faith, who had indoctrinated him with commandments and a rigid definition of sin, who believed in 'keeping up appearances' and an ideal of a perfect gentleman. _ Who made a home for an orphan despite her own grief, who introduced you to singing, who instilled you with ethics and ambition, who supported you, was proud of you..._ The inner voice, his eternal devil's advocate.

Law school, with its demands and competitiveness; feeling out of his depth and not wanting to swim harder by having to fight against the tide. _ But progressive enough to admit you on scholarship and there was the singing group...) _

The DA's office with more competitiveness, more demands, all under the watchful eye of the DA himself, whose southern accent and conservative views were so reminiscent of his grandmother. The added pressure of public scrutiny and the need to see justice served. _ The respect you've earned, the thrill of the gladiatorial battle in the arena of the courtroom, the sense of satisfaction of a job done well..._

His wife, who suited these circles he moved in, who was cultured and intelligent and beautiful _-white!_ - who he had hoped would be enough... _ But who now demands nothing of you but civility, is content to live her own life..._

And _ him_?

Detective Goren, who had challenged and dared and provoked, who had torn his carefully constructed world apart. _ Bobby...who had inspired you, made you dream, made you remember..._

And where was Ronnie in all of this?

Lost.

Lost in a desolate marriage, lost in the labyrinth of the law, lost in an office filled with shame and longing. In a sudden rare display of emotion, he lashes out, smashing the mirror. Enough! This life was no longer for him...

It was time to sing his own song.

**Epilogue**

Bobby thinks of Carver on occasions, had been surprised at the pass he'd made. He'd not wanted to add to the man's embarrassment so had carried on as if nothing had happened. He misses the challenge of subverting Carver's strict love of procedure, misses his attitude – straitlaced but with a surprising edge of flamboyance, misses the discussions and debates, and misses a mind that could be surprisingly creative with the application of the law. He is puzzled by the abrupt and unexplained departure.

And sometimes he dreams.

Dreams of sculpted chocolate skin and a molten honey voice, of coffee black eyes and sweet mocha lips...

And wakes, appetite strangely whetted.

_A/N _

_Thank you for reading and reviewing- your interest and feed back is much appreciated._

_Usual Disclaimer; LOCI is not mine – probably a good thing – it would be a very different show..._


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